Stonewall Hinkleman and the Battle of Bull Run by Sam Riddleburger Page B

appears over the crest of the hill. The horses haul a cannon behind them. Cyrus gives a low whistle. The officer says, “That’s one of them Parrott guns . . . ten pounder . . . big and rifled and real accurate if you know how to use it.”
    Oh man, a Parrott gun! This thing is like the Tiger Woods of cannons. A lot of Civil War cannons aren’t rifled. They’re just smooth-bore barrels that fire round balls that don’t really spin or rotate or fly real straight. But the Parrott guns have grooved barrels that spin the bullet-shaped ammo, making it fly straighter. These things shoot real far and are real accurate.
    And that’s what’s on the hill ahead of us. Another team of horses crests the hill. Another and another. In all, six teams of horses pulling cannons appear over the top of a low rise. A full battery. Once they’re set up, General Jackson’s men won’t be safe. They’ll be easy targets.
    Our officer motions us into a line of battle.
    â€œHuh, I guess that intelligence was intelligent after all,” Cyrus whispers as he crawls into position. “How did he know?”
    I know how he knew. I look around for the officer’s “intelligence,” but nowhere is the black hat visible. I crane my neck so I can see all the way down the line. Still no Dupree. He’s not with us. He didn’t come. He’s sending us to do his dirty work, whatever it is. I’ve got a bad feeling that he’s come up with a pretty good plan here.
    On top of the hill, Yankee soldiers busily untie their horses from the cannons and begin arranging the big guns.
    â€œEverybody loaded?” whispers our officer. “We’ll all fire at once and we’ll have them before they turn around. Ready, men? On three . . . one . . . two . . . THREE!”
    We step out from the corn and open fire. The first ten Yankees to die all get shot in the back.
    But not by me. I can’t bring myself to do it. I aim my musket just over their heads, just like a reenactor, and pull the trigger. My shoulder practically breaks from the gun’s recoil.
    Our flag guy leads our charge, but only makes it a few steps when he’s hit. I see some Yankees at the top of the hill taking potshots from behind their cannons.
    Cyrus grabs the flag from the ground in one hand and with his musket in the other lets out this god-awful scream and charges up the hill. The others beside me follow.
    Watching Cyrus run, I don’t see how he’ll ever get shot in the butt. His backside is never to the enemy. Maybe somehow I’ve kept it from happening. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
    All right. Another charge. I’m getting pretty good at this. I take a deep breath and start to take off.
    â€œYaaagh!” I yell as all of a sudden I’m yanked back into the corn and flat on my back.
    â€œWhat the . . .” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. The sun’s right in my face and all I can see is this looming shadow over me. My gut seizes up. All I can think is Dupree! I’m about to really cuss when the shadow drops beside me. My gut takes a different flip. It’s Ashby, her freckled face real close to mine.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says, “but I had to tell you something. I caught a little of what he’s up to.”
    My brain feels a little woozy. “Huh?” I say.
    â€œStonewall!” Ash says. “Please pay attention.” She gives me a thump on the head.
    â€œOw!”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she says. “But my father . . . what you guys are doing is part of some sort of stunt he’s got up his sleeve.”
    â€œYeah,” I say, rubbing my head. “I figured that part out already.”
    Ash looks through the cornstalks up the hill. I follow and can just see Cyrus, Big Jim, and Elmer wheeling one of the cannons around to aim away from us.
    â€œI was carrying buckets of water to some of the wounded behind the